


Roman Walls

by Isis



Category: Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: First Time, M/M, Missing Scene, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esca does not love Roman walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roman Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ninth_eagle fanmedia challenge, inspired by the picture of a lightning storm. Also inspired somewhat by a conversation in my LJ with Carmarthen and Motetus about the tension in the bookverse relationship as compared to the movieverse relationship. Thanks to Signe for beta-reading and Britpicking.

The storm caught up with them a few hours after they'd left Corinium. The flash of lightning and roar of thunder did not bother the army post-horses they had been given at Borcovicus by the Centurion who had been Marcus' friend, but the cold rain stung like biting flies. 

"There is no doubt a _mansio_ at the junction with the Verulamium Road," Marcus said. He leaned close to Esca and spoke loudly, yet Esca could hardly hear him over the drumming of the rain and the rumble of the storm. "We could get a room and be dry for the night."

"I do not need a room," Esca shouted back. "But if your leg bothers you –"

"No, no, I am fine." Marcus turned his face forward, jaw set; Esca knew that he would not admit to pain, any more more than he would admit he wanted a dry bed, if Esca said he preferred to sleep under a tree.

And tonight, despite the storm, it was indeed the tree he preferred. Not that he enjoyed his sodden clothes or the chill of cold air on wet skin; but the _mansio_ – one in a network of wayside inns that Rome had built along its roads – would be Rome, as Calleva would be Rome, and Rome was his slavery, Rome was his past life.

He should not be thinking this, he knew. Marcus had given him the scroll that spelled out his freedom before they had gone north of the Wall. But somehow in his mind they were linked, now: his slavery in Calleva, his freedom to the north. They would make Calleva the next day, and things would go back to the way they had been. 

It was not that things had been so bad in the household of Marcus' uncle. Even when he had been Marcus' slave, it had been far different than it had been in the two years before, the two years that had ended on the sands of the arena. Marcus had never treated him as a slave, but as a friend, always, from the first day Esca had stood before him in the atrium of the Aquila house, and they had taken each other's measure.

And yet everything had changed since then between them. Everything.

They had been friends when Esca had been Marcus' slave, and they had been friends when they had ridden north on the hunting-trail of the Eagle which they now carried. But then they had raced south across the moorland on their panting ponies ahead of the Epidii warriors; supported each other as they struggled upstream through the swift and icy waters they hoped would obscure their trail; flung themselves into the furze together, hiding from the men who searched for them with spear and bow; stood shoulder to shoulder in the old Roman signal-tower, prepared for the end. That had forged something altogether new between them. It had been a good hunting.

It was not something they spoke of, not something they acknowledged outside their own hearts. But after they had left the fortress at the wall on their borrowed army mounts, they were finally able to breathe free, to slow the furious pace which had given them no time to reflect. They had ridden south toward Eboracum with only the urgency of triumph to push them. 

It had been a rare sunny day, as they left Borcovicus behind. The harsh winds and spreading mists of early autumn had given way to a short fine period of clear blue skies. Looking over at Marcus riding beside him, Esca felt a warmth course through him that could not be altogether attributed to the sunshine. They had been prepared for the end, and yet they had come through it.

When the buildings of a _mansio_ had appeared in the distance, Marcus had slowed his mount. "There is still daylight to ride for another two hours, I think. But if we want a roof over our heads –"

"I will be glad to have no roof tonight," Esca had replied honestly. The days spent recovering in the fortress had unnerved him. He did not like being surrounded by the soldiers of Rome, or by the walls of Roman forts. The inn of the road-house would be more Roman walls.

"Good," Marcus had said, smiling. "It will save our coin, and there will be no rain, I think."

On their flight south they had huddled together for warmth in the nights, when they still travelled openly; and after they had sold their ponies in Are-Cluta and moved cautiously and only by night, it was easier to find a small hiding-place than a large one, so that although one would keep watch while the other slept, they would be curled up like puppies together in whatever refuge they had found.

The night was not so cold that they truly needed each other's warmth, and there was no need for stealth and a secret, small place to hide. Yet when Marcus spread the blankets of his bedroll, Esca put his close beside them, and pulled their cloaks over both of them together.

"Nobody chases us," Esca murmured against Marcus' ear. "We have worn out the horses' feet instead of our own today, and we are under a rowan tree and not in the mud-bank of a cold river."

"I could find a river for us to sleep in, if you miss it."

"I do not miss it at all." He let his lips touch the skin behind Marcus' ear, rested his open palm against Marcus' hip, let his fingers curl against warm skin. Gently, gently; it was an offer, to be accepted or refused. 

He could feel the tension in Marcus' body, feel his hesitation, as though he were balanced on his heels at the rim of a cliff, looking at the foaming sea below; and then Marcus rolled back toward him, pressed his body against Esca's own, and took him plunging over the edge.

They clung together like drowning men. Marcus clutched at his leg, at his arm, buried his face in the space between neck and shoulder. It was fast and frantic and sweet beyond Esca's imaginings. Afterward he slept better than he had since they had left the village of the Epidii.

In the morning he woke to Marcus' hand on his shoulder. "It is time we should be on our way."

He looked up muzzily. Marcus' smile was unreserved, and he met it with his own. "It was good not to sleep in the river," he said, and Marcus laughed, and pulled him to his feet, and clasped his arms around him. 

"It was good," Marcus said quietly, and Esca knew he was not just talking of their sleeping, but also of what had come before. 

They took their time the next night, under a different tree, with an owl hooting mournfully from its branches and the stars sparkling overhead. Marcus' hand was smooth and his grip strong and sure, and when Esca spilled over his fist Marcus' gasp was as heartfelt as his own. For his own part, he could not keep his eyes from Marcus' face as he stroked him. The half-moon above lit the planes of his face with silver, throwing every angle of nose and cheekbone into dark relief. He was a marble carving, a silver statue; but a statue which shuddered under Esca's hand, and it was beautiful, he was beautiful. 

On the third day, under cloudy and threatening skies, they came to a Roman fort, where their road joined another coming from the north. The soldiers stopped them and roughly asked from where they had stolen their mounts, but Marcus produced the paper his friend had given him, and after an uncomfortable delay they were permitted to pass. Esca supposed they must look like brigands, with their tattered clothing and several days' beard; doubtless it was natural for the soldiers to suspect them, but he did not enjoy their scrutiny.

Shortly after they left the fort behind a mizzle rain began to fall, but Esca shook his head at Marcus' inquiring look when they came to the next _mansio_. The rain would wash away the taste of Rome that had been in his mouth when they left the fort. A British tree was all the shelter he needed.

A British tree, and, he had to admit, a Roman's arms; but Marcus did not mean Rome to him anymore. Their cloaks kept the rain at bay, spread out across their twined bodies. Underneath it smelled of sweat and damp wool, and the new heat of their desire kept them warm through the cold night. 

On the next day they reached Eboracum. Even if it had not been steadily raining, there was no question that they would get a room, as well as go to the bath-house, for Marcus had it in his mind to enquire after the Legate who had agreed to this mission, and he would not appear at the fortress gates bearded and smelling of the road.

"It is all right with you?" he asked, and Esca thought he sounded almost anxious for him. "I know you do not love Roman walls."

"It is fine," Esca said carelessly. "Besides," he added, a wicked smile crossing his lips, "it shall be an opportunity to see what can be done in a proper bed."

After the bath-house, Marcus went to call upon the Legion. Esca wandered through the market, thinking of things that could be done in a proper bed. He found a stall and made a purchase.

"Your woman will like this very much," said the crone as she wrapped the bottle in a cloth. "It will make her skin as soft as that of a baby."

Over dinner Marcus told him that the Legate had not yet arrived. "I would push on to Calleva, so we do not miss him on the road."

"Tonight? Surely you do not mean to give up our lovely room," said Esca.

"How could I? It has such a nice roof to keep out the rain."

"And such a soft bed."

Marcus smiled, shaking his head. "You will grow quite out of the habit of sleeping under trees."

"A bed or a tree, that is not the important thing." He touched the back of Marcus' hand briefly. It was true; Esca didn't mind the Roman walls, not if he had Marcus hard and warm against him.

Hard and warm and sweet-smelling, after the bath-house, and it was intoxicating. Like barley-spirit; like the metheglin they had drunk in the village where they had found the Eagle. Marcus trembled under his mouth and tongue.

With mouth and tongue Esca slid down the body laid out before him, past the expanse of smooth chest and flat stomach, along the dark soft line of hair. He curled his hand around Marcus' prick and brought his lips down on it.

Marcus jolted upright, jerking out of his hand. "Esca! You – I would not ask that of you. You are a free man."

"I am a free man, yes, and so?"

"I would not have you degrade yourself."

"It does not degrade either of us for me to give you pleasure," said Esca. "Nor for you to accept it from me."

"Did the man who – who had you as a slave, before – did he force you to do such to him?" The words came in a rush, as though Marcus hated the taste of them; as though he wanted them out from his mouth before the bitterness seeped onto his tongue.

"No! And I would not have let him, if he did."

"You would have been beaten."

"I was beaten anyway. I was not a very good slave." He shrugged. "Why else would I have been in the arena?"

"Then why would you –" Marcus gestured toward his groin. Esca noted with interest that he had not gone soft; it seemed to him he was even harder than before. He grasped Marcus again, and yes, he was hard like iron; a bitten-off moan confirmed that Marcus' desire was not diminished in the least.

Esca let his fingers play along its length for a moment before finally speaking. "Because it is pleasant. Yes, of course for the one who is receiving, but also..." Another caress to Marcus' cock, this time harder and faster. "Do you not think I like to touch you thus?"

Marcus' voice came out on a gasp. "That is – that is your hand, it is different."

"It is no different. I touch you with my mouth, too." He released Marcus and moved up to nuzzle at his neck. One kiss at his jawline, then another near his ear. Softly he whispered, "My mouth likes to touch you as much as does my hand."

"We may not always do as we like," said Marcus, and there was a sadness in the way he said it that tugged at Esca's heart.

"Between us, we may do what we like. If we both like it, where is the harm?" Gently he touched Marcus' chin and turned his face toward his own, looked into his eyes. "Would you like it if I sucked your prick?"

"You do not feel shame," Marcus said, and it wasn't a question; his voice held a note of wonderment, almost of awe.

"It is shameful only if I fail to make you spurt in my mouth," said Esca, grinning, and he shifted on the bed and reached for Marcus again.

This time Marcus did not push him away; and Esca had no reason to feel shame that night.

Southward they travelled, on and on and on. Sometimes they slept under a spreading rowan or in the hollow under a hill; sometimes they slept in an inn; but always they slept together, wrapped in each other's arms and cloaks and their shared affection. Marcus quickly became as eager for Esca's mouth as Esca was to take him in, and eager as well, to Esca's surprise, to reciprocate with his own.

"The taste does take some getting used to," Esca said apologetically, that first time. It was difficult not to smile; Marcus had made a valiant attempt to hide his dismay, but it had been obvious, all the same.

Marcus took a long drink of water from his canteen before answering. "Then I'll have to practise, won't I."

They practised, the two of them, across all of Britain, until at last they came to the final stretch of road between Corinium and Calleva, and the journey's end was in sight. 

The wind was blowing harder now; icy sheets of rain twisted against their cloaks and their mounts. Frequent flashes of lightning illuminated the road ahead. One flash highlighted a group of buildings against the storm-dark afternoon sky: the inn at the Verulamium crossroads.

If this was to be their last night together, thought Esca, it should be in a comfortable bed, though it be under a Roman roof. "We should stay there," he shouted, gesturing with a hand at the buildings ahead of them. I do not think it will stop raining this evening." 

Another flash lit Marcus' face, and Esca saw him nod. It seemed to Esca he looked relieved, but also thoughtful; it was clear he was considering what might be behind Esca's change of heart.

They stabled their horses and went to the tavern to warm themselves over bowls of stew and cups of wine. The room was full of other travellers, noisy with loud conversation and the drumming of rain on the roof-tiles, punctuated by the rumble and bang of thunder from the storm outside. It was impossible to talk quietly, so they did not talk at all.

It would be their last night on the road, their last night together. Esca tried not to think about that as he drank the cheap wine the innkeeper had served. It was no use wishing they were out in a field, under the stars; you took what life handed you, and with that you must be content.

Their room was small, barely large enough for the bed, with no hearth, only one small lamp on the wall for light. It didn't matter. They were already warm and dry, thanks to the fire and the heat of the other bodies in the tavern. Esca began to strip off his clothes, but Marcus laid a hand on his arm.

"It will be a long day's ride tomorrow to Calleva, but we should be at my uncle's house before nightfall."

"Yes," said Esca. That was nothing he did not already know.

Marcus sat on the bed. "In a way, I don't want this journey to end." He looked up at Esca, his face open, honest. "I do not think you do, either."

Esca allowed himself a small smile. "We could just keep riding. But we would run out of land in a short while."

"There is the sea. We could take passage to Gallia." 

"We could go to Hispania."

"Or even to Rome," Marcus said. Esca felt the smile freeze on his face; Marcus must have noticed, for he continued, "Or perhaps not to Rome. It is not just a place to you, is it."

Esca looked at the floor. Then he sat heavily beside Marcus. "Rome is many things to me. As it is to you. But no, I would not care to go to Rome."

"Well, there are many other places we might go. But first we must go to Calleva, to make arrangements." Marcus glanced briefly toward where his bundle of clothes, with the Eagle wrapped within, sat in the corner of their room. 

"It will be different between us in the house of your uncle." That was as close as Esca could come to saying what was in his heart. He hoped Marcus would understand. 

"We will have to be discreet, yes. But we won't be there forever. It is in my mind that I will find work somewhere, and we can have our own household then. Maybe one day a farm."

"Maybe," said Esca. Marcus quickly put a hand on his shoulder.

"I am sorry. I was thinking of my own dreams. You would come with me?"

"I am your armour-bearer," he said simply. "I will go with you, even to Rome."

"Esca," breathed Marcus, and his arms went around Esca, and for a while there was no more talking.

After some time they were both sprawled on the bed, their clothes in a heap in the corner. Esca ran the flat of his hand down the planes of Marcus' chest, down, slowly down, until it rested on his hipbone. Marcus' cock twitched against the back of his hand, and Esca grinned.

"If we must be discreet in the future, we should make the most of this evening. Shall I suck you?" Another twitch. "Or would you thrust between my thighs?" He let his hand wander casually across Marcus' groin, brushing his cock so very gently that Marcus let out a groan of mixed pleasure and frustration.

"Esca." He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and sat up. "You would go to Rome with me," he said softly. 

I _am_ going to Rome with you, Esca thought but did not say. But his expression must have betrayed him, for Marcus reached over and trailed his fingers along Esca's jaw, his fingers light and gentle.

"You owe nothing to Rome, and Rome owes a great deal to you. She cannot hurt you any more."

"You may say so." He knew his voice sounded wooden; he did not care.

"Esca," Marcus said again. He looked away for a moment and swallowed, then turned back to Esca and looked directly into his eyes. "Tonight I would like it if you would fuck me."

Well, _that_ was unexpected. Esca blinked. "You would?"

The hint of a smile crossed Marcus' lips. "It is something I have been thinking about for some time," he admitted, and oh, if Esca hadn't already been hard that would have done it, right there. Several times, on their journey south, his mind had gone to the oil he had bought in Eboracum, which was still in his things, still wrapped in cloth. But he had remembered how Marcus had reacted when Esca had first tried to use his mouth on him; and the few times Esca had let his hand stray farther back between Marcus' legs, he had felt Marcus' whole body go stiff before relaxing again, as though by force of will. And so he had never dared—never thought – never imagined – 

"I did not think it was a thing Romans did."

"Yes and no. It is all right for a citizen to fuck a slave, or a foreign boy who has no beard yet."

Esca lifted his hand to touch Marcus' fingers where they still rested on his jaw; on the stubble there, the growth of five or six days, which he supposed he would shave when they reached Calleva. "I am afraid you are several years too late," he said with a loud and dramatic sigh, but Marcus snatched away his hand, stricken, and quickly Esca added, "I mean only that I have a beard now. But I would let you, if you wanted."

The bit of a smile came back to Marcus' face. "I would rather you do it to me." 

It came to him, of a sudden, what Marcus might mean by this, and he fought back the flash of anger that surged through him like the lightning outside. "I do not need to fuck Rome to feel at ease. And in any case," he added, "it is that you do not represent Rome in my eyes, not any more. Not for some time."

"I am not asking you to fuck Rome," Marcus said quietly. "It is not only you who does not love Roman walls."

_Oh._

It was all right for a citizen to fuck a slave or a beardless boy, perhaps for him even to take a free man of Rome as he himself was now, but not, he knew, the other way around. How had he been so selfish so as not to see?

He lay back on the bed, pulling Marcus with him; stroking his hair, his arm, the curve of his hip. "This is something you have done before?" 

"No. But it is something I have long desired."

He let out his breath in a long exhale. Something in him was elated that it would be he who would be Marcus' first; yet also he was afraid, for what if Marcus did not like it? What if it were not what Marcus had imagined it to be? What if –

"You are worrying too much," said Marcus. "It will be good, because it is you and me."

Esca swallowed. "Yes." It seemed to him his voice came from somewhere very far away. "Wait a moment." He did not have to get up to reach the tied bundle of his things. The bottle seemed oddly small in his hand, an awkward thing.

"So you have been thinking of this as well," said Marcus, when he saw what Esca held.

"Yes."  


They piled up their cloaks to make a support Marcus could lie on, so as not to strain his leg too much. Esca kissed his neck, his back, his thigh; opened him with fingers and tongue, spreading oil on skin until Marcus was pushing back against him, pleading, begging, whispering. His own prick quivered with want; the important thing was Marcus, he told himself, and when he finally allowed himself to push carefully inside, he almost cried out with the sweetness of it.

"Are you all right?" he asked, when he thought he could be master of his voice.

A quiet laugh. "Yes, yes. Now move!"

And he moved, and Marcus moved under him, and the thunder echoed their groans, and the thunder drowned out their cries.

Much later, as they lay quietly curled against each other, Marcus lifted his head. "The storm has ended, I think."

Esca listened. The rumbles had grown quieter, more distant; the thrumming of rain against the tiles sounded softer. "The storm may be moving off, but it is still raining. I am glad we have a roof over our heads!"

"Though it is a Roman roof, held up by Roman walls?"

"I can bear to be within them, I suppose, if we are together."

"And I as well," said Marcus. He sat up and put out the lamp, then kissed Esca's shoulder and pulled the covers over them both. "In time, we will have our own roof and walls."

"But will they be Roman, or British?" Esca asked, and Marcus laughed. 

"Both, I imagine, since they will belong to both of us."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that Marcus was no longer Rome to him, but he held it back; Marcus was not Rome, but yet he was Roman still, Roman always. Or at least this was what Marcus believed; for himself, Esca was not so sure. Marcus had been changed by the journey; he had gone to the North as a Roman, searching for a Roman symbol while disguised as an Alexandrine, but it seemed to Esca his time among the tribes – his time with Esca, as well – had made him a little less Roman and a little more British. Would a fully-Roman Marcus have acted on his very non-Roman desires? Esca doubted that.

But it occurred to him that he also had been changed. He had offered his life for the Eagle, after all; he had shared the hunting with his brother – more than the hunting – he had shared everything. Even to what made one British and the other Roman, so that now they were both part of both peoples. 

Perhaps that would be the future of this land. He remembered Guern the Hunter; he who had been a Roman and was now a Briton, with a woman of the tribes, and small children that were truly of both peoples. Men and women met, and they loved, and where they came from before did not matter, in the end.

"I will not mind our own walls, for they will be both British and Roman," he finally said; but while he had been thinking, Marcus had fallen asleep. He smiled to himself, and soon he, too, was asleep.

He dreamed of open fields, with no walls at all; and in the morning, in the soft mizzle rain, they mounted their horses, and rode for Calleva.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Walls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182285) by [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/pseuds/Jain)
  * [Wicked Lights (The Roman Walls Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4233909) by [chantefable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable)




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